


Eve of Destruction

by 732



Series: In Another Universe [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and acts of vandalism, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/732/pseuds/732
Summary: The one where Villanelle creates a Fight Club to overthrow the patriarchyYou know... typical girl stuff  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Series: In Another Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769818
Kudos: 4





	Eve of Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> does one need to post spoiler alerts for a 20 year old movie? Based loosely off Fight Club (1999) which thanks to me and my friend's obsessive nature, we've seen half a dozen times since quarantine.
> 
> I did take a lot of artistic liberties with this though. 
> 
> It is, after all, a love story

_People were always asking me, did I know the infamous Villanelle?_

Villanelle looks to her wrist at a nonexistent watch. She rolls her eyes then pulls out her cell phone to check the time.

“One minute! This is it. We are going to witness the birth of a brand new beginning. Perhaps you should say a few words? To commemorate this momentous occasion?”

I swallowed.

With a blade of a knife glinting in your eyes, it’s hard to focus on anything else besides just _how close_ it is to your throat.

“I—I can’t think of anything.”

Villanelle struts casually over to the window. We are 30 stories up. She admires the view for a second before she drags her hand across the glass to make an obnoxious squeaking noise.

We have front row seats for a display of mass destruction. The demolitions committee of _Project_ _Hysteria_ wrapped the foundation columns of this building with blasting gel. The primary charge will blow the base charge, and this spot Villanelle and I are standing in will be a speck high up in the sky in just under a minute.

I know this because Villanelle knows this.

“You and I—we created this beautiful bastard lovechild.” She turns to me with a look in her eye that was both direct and also chilling. “T minus 30 seconds. Do you feel that _excitement_? I am practically vibrating!”

In the background I hear faint music. She shimmies playfully to the tune.

Villanelle can be so extra sometimes.

Somehow, I realize all of this—the knives, the bombs, the _revolution_ —is really all because of Eve Polastri.

_Much earlier,_

_At the doctor’s office_

“No you cannot die of insomnia.”

I know I’m getting older because this intern I am speaking to looks like a child playing dress-up in a lab coat.

“What about narcolepsy? I nod off sometimes and I wake up in strange places; I have no idea how I got there.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You cannot die of that either.”

“Maybe I died already? Look at my face.” I pull at my lower eyelid to show him where dark circles are hiding.

“You look fine. Just need to lighten up, sweetheart. Smile more.”

I glaze over his last comment. “Can’t you just give me something? Anything! I am so exhausted all the time but I just cannot fall asleep.”

“You are overreacting. You just need some healthy, natural sleep. Get some more exercise maybe, take a walk.”

The intern walks away from me and I’m left sitting in silence in the clinic room.

_That evening…_

I joined Narcotics Anonymous. Nobody told me that when you sober up, you start to remember _everything_. That could be why I cannot sleep anymore.

I might have to reconsider this sobriety thing.

We are in the basement of a church. The lights are dim. They flicker. The chairs here are arranged in a semicircle facing a giant mirror that spans the wall. I think there might be some metaphor of facing our real selves? Who knows.

At least there’s always a full carafe of coffee here.

It’s shit. But it’s free.

I grab a cup and take a seat furthest from the door. NA members start filing in and I have a good seat to people watch. What I love about these meetings is that we all feel it—the _ennui_. I I am in a room full of people who just wanted to fill that emptiness.

The usual folks start piling in. Old, young, black, white, queer, straight, poor, rich. We are all the same here. Rock bottom is the great equalizer.

An older, balding gentleman named Bill takes a seat at the very center. He leads the meetings.

A pink haired pixie chooses the seat across from me. She was slim about 25, 26. Her lips are full. Her bright lipstick stands out against the contrast of her cheap, white paper cup that she held in her hands.

I was admiring the many rings adorning her fingers when a well dressed millenial occupies the folded chair beside mine. It creaks on its uneven legs when he plops down. Hugo is… well I guess you could call him a friend. He has been going to these meetings almost as long as I have.

He straightens the lapels of his sport coat. “You are the only one here with any semblance of style.” He eyes the middle aged hippie with dreads and Birkenstocks to the other side of him.

I hum a response, not really focused.

A new face standing in the doorway takes my attention from whatever rambling it is Hugo is going on about.

She looks uncertain.

_Well, hello…_

Lost, maybe.

_This must be her first meeting._

Her brows are furrowed, hair wild, expression tamed. One foot over the threshold into this room, one foot still out in the hallway. She looks like she could bolt in either direction. My heart goes out to her. We have all been there.

The pink haired beauty across from me must recognize something in the new face because she lazily waves her over. The stranger freezes in place like she didn’t expect anyone to notice her. She stood for a second more before she retreats back into the hallway. Her hurried footsteps echo and fade in the distance.

_She was probably not ready to face her “real self” yet._

The conversations simmer down once 7:30 hits.

“Welcome everyone,” Bill begins our meeting. He nods towards a couple new people. “It’s good to see new faces. And even better to see a lot of familiar ones.”

“Who would like to go first?”

“Hi.” The pink haired pixie halfheartedly raises her hand. “My name is Billie. I am an addict.”

A chorus of “Hi Billie” follows.

* * * *

Hugo finishes up a story about a week long bender he had on a yacht off the coast of Spain and the difficulties of escaping a pop song once his good friend, Avicii, passed away.

At least at it’s core, his experience was relatable. Sort of.

“Thank you, Hugo.”

“Anyone else?” Bill looks around the room. When no one answers Bill slaps his hands on his knees. “Right then. Chips. Do we have any first day people here?”

Two people make their way over to Bill for their NA tokens.

“30 days? 60 days?”

The guy next to Hugo is reduced to a babbling mess when he stands to take his sobriety chip. He cradles it like a newborn.

I elbow Hugo. “Are you going to cry, too?”

“Oh God, no,” he whispers back. “You?”

“Nope,” mouth popping on the ‘p’ at the end.

“Nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside.”

We bump fists. “Amen.”

“90 days?” Bill continues.

“That would be mine. Thank you,” Hugo hastily snatches the chip from Bill’s hand before he flashes it in my direction with a cheeky grin.

“6 months?”

The pink haired pixie stood.

_6 months._

Billie regards the chip for a second then drops it in the pocket of her silk kimono.

_Go you._

Bill surveys us once he is done handing out chips. “I look around this room and I see a lot of courage. It gives me strength. We give each other strength. Well done, then, the lot of you. See you all next week.”

2:38 AM

I could not sleep. Lights danced across the ceiling. Cars passed by my window and I wondered who in their right mind would be out at this hour? It was nearly 3 AM and I have succeeded in nothing but finding every cool spot on the bed and rolling onto it until my body heated it to a temperature so uncomfortably warm that I had to roll over find the next cool spot.

The words of the barely-old-enough-to-drink medical intern replayed in my mind.

Before I knew it I was slipping on my boots and headed out the door.

The air in London always felt a little… stifling. Is that the correct English word for it? You know, when you are breathing but it feels like all you are doing is recycling the same stale and stagnant air with the universe?

Or maybe that is just what living a sober life feels like.

My feet carried me all the way until I reached a very familiar dodgy bridge.

To be honest though, this entire neighborhood is dodgy. I am hyper aware of my surroundings. Out of reflex, I pull my jumper closer around my shoulders.

The foundation of the bridge is decorated with colorful graffiti. The faint smell of a fire cuts through the still air. I lean against the handrail. The cement is crumbling and I’m afraid if I put my entire weight on it, the whole damn thing would fall apart.

Somewhere nearby a group of men approach. I turn to see them walking down the street without a care in the world. It must be nice to be able to be out at night and not fear for your safety. To not be looking over your shoulder every second for threats.

A few meters ahead of them a small asian woman is clicking her heels hurriedly on the pavement. The mens’ boisterous laughter echoes. It occupies all the space around her. She checks worriedly behind her at the noise.

The woman makes eye contact with me. Her brows are furrowed, eyes almost pleading. There was something familiar in that gaze. I recognized that look and gave her a single nod. In a moment she was crossing the street and bounding over to me, much like shipwrecked sailor to a lifeboat.

Strong arms wrap around me. “Honey, hey!” She says loud enough for the group of guys to hear. “Thanks for waiting for me!”

I reach out to awkwardly pat her back. “Of course.” I play along, making sure that I was speaking loud enough for her tail to hear. “I was starting to wonder where you were.”

The guys linger across the street while longer. They mumble something to each other before turning around. They head back the direction they came.

A moment passes. I press my cheek against her hair to whisper in her ear and the smell of coconut fills my senses. “I think they’re gone now.”

“Oh thank fuck. Thank you so much! They started following me after I left the pub.”

She pulls away. Coconut wafts towards me once more before it disappears completely.

The curly haired woman regards me with a scrutinizing gaze. I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“What?”

“I uh… I think I might actually recognize you?”

I play dumb. “Oh?” How could I forget someone with hair as gorgeous as hers?

“Yeah,” she says. “How could I forget someone as gorgeous as you.”

_Great minds think alike._

“You look different, though.” It comes off more like an accusation than a statement. “But I definitely recognize you. You were... at the church.”

_Ah._ And there it is. The reason for the tone. The judgment that appears whenever someone finds out who you really are. That you are actually an ugly fraud hiding behind a porcelain facade.

“Yes, the erm,” the words feel heavy in my mouth, “Narcotics Anonymous meetings. I’ve been clean for a while now.” I produce my sobriety chip to drop in her palm. The woman turns it over in her fingers. She’s silent for a moment.

“Good for you. We’re all kinda fucked up anyway.” Her shoulder moves in a lazy shrug. “Some of us better at hiding it than others.”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.” I shrink. Parroting the NA doctrine outside the meetings feels a little cringey.

She raises her eyebrow at me. Her bemused expression says she is thinking the same thing.

I offer my pack of cigarettes in an attempt to redirect the conversation. “Smoke?”

“These are bad for you, you know.” But takes one anyway.

I lean over to light her at the same moment she reaches out for my hand. Our knuckles touch. I freeze instinctively. The woman's fingertips gently pull my fingers away from my fist like petals. She holds my open hand softly then drops my chip back into my palm.

I place the token back in my pocket. The lining of my jacket almost as soft as her hands.

She leans in and I finally light her cigarette. It takes a few starter puffs before the cherry is fully lit. “Thanks for, you know.” she jerks her thumb behind her.

_Ah,_ the creepy guys following her.

I wave it off. “We have all been there, honey.”

The stranger grumbles in agreement. “So sad that that is true."

"Mhmm."

"I’m just grateful that you were here when you were. It was a lucky coincidence.”

“Serendipitous,” I offer.

She smiles. “ _Finding something good by chance.”_

I smile back. “I like language.”

We stand for a moment. The silence that falls between us is easy.

“So... what _are_ you doing here?”

“It’s peaceful. All the world’s asleep.”A lone car drives on the bridge we are standing on. “Erm, most of it at least.”

She snorts.

“Am I out late? Am I up early? Who is really to say?” I gesture vaguely. “I can be whoever I want at 3 AM on a Tuesday.”

Dark eyes regard me amused. “And who are you at 3 AM on a Tuesday?”

“I am…” Who _am_ I? Nobody has really asked me that before. “I am... someone who smokes too many cigarettes and entertains beautiful strangers on dodgy bridges.”

“So you think I’m beautiful?” She ashes her cigarette.

Did I say that part out loud? “Well… you think I’m gorgeous.”

The corner of her mouth turns up ever so slightly. She seems to enjoy our playful banter as much as I do.

“What do you do when you cannot find a _beautiful_ _stranger_ on dodgy bridges to entertain?” emphasis fall on my words that she echoes.

“I dunno. I like going out into the night for walks.” The explanation falls out of my mouth like a stream. “I have insomnia. The night offers a kind of calm you can’t get during the day.”

I don’t know if she actually understands but the strange woman nods anyway.

Something about her makes talking so easy. “It’s quiet. I like it. It kind of feels like… I don’t know, you know those apocalypse movies? Where everything looks like normal with a hint of eerie to it?”

“I got you,” she replies.

The phrase hits a little different. I felt something stir deep in my gut.

_Americans and their slang._

“It’s like, uh, familiar but still foreign? Liminal space! That’s the word for it...” She ashes her cigarette pointedly. “I like liminal spaces. Hotel hallways. Airports at night. Sometimes I like exploring abandoned buildings.”

I turn to look at the street to the right of us. “Paper Street must be the perfect place for you then.” Paper Street had exactly one warehouse run mostly by machines and an endless a row of empty houses and abandoned lots. We were the only souls for 2 kilometers in that direction.

“It’s peaceful.” Her smile meets her tired eyes. “And what about you? What are some things you like to do?”

“Besides smoking cigs with hot women on dodgy bridges juxtapose abandoned neighborhoods at 3 AM on Tuesdays?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“Well you know, I do not always keep a pencil and paper with me as I fall asleep--”

“Naturally.”

“--so I write poetry. In my head.”

This piques her interest. “A poet! Okay, do me. Do me!”

It’s difficult to resist the urge to flirt. The excitement behind her voice was too pure for me to reply _I would be honored to do you, darling._

“Alright,” I give in. “Give me a topic.”

“Well… me obviously,” she gestures to herself with her hand, “and…” her eyes catch the lit cigarette resting between her fingers, “cigarettes.”

There was a very familiar feeling pulsing through me. She felt like warmth in my veins. My mouth turned dry. My head felt light like I could float away. But here, being in this woman’s atmosphere, my feet felt heavy and anchored in place.

She ashes her cigarette and eyes expectantly bore into mine.

I take a drag from my cigarette. There's a long moment I use to think before I finally exhale.

“I cannot tell if

it is you or cigarettes

I’m addicted to.”

“A haiku. Clever.” She turns her gaze away from mine but I can still see the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly.

My inner nerd is high-fiving myself.

_Ten points to Gryffindor!_

“And you, who are you?” I ask.

“I am Eve.” She then adds as an after thought, “Polastri.”

“Hi Eve.”

Eve seems amused by my rehearsed monotone greeting that I usually save for NA meetings. She playfully bumps me with her hip. I am suddenly aware of how close we are standing.

_It’s probably just because it’s chilly out._

The streetlamp shone above her and the fog framed Eve in the dreamiest way. Everything behind her was disappeared into the night. This woman, in her blue dress, big curls, and raincoat were the only things in focus. The rest of the world faded in her presence.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “And who are _you_ at 3 AM on a Tuesday?”

“I am…” She weighs her words carefully in her mouth. “Someone who admittedly drinks too much.”

“Too much?” I ask.

“Too much.” She nods her head down low. She seems to be thinking about the circumstances that led to us meeting.

“Well the first step is admitting you have a problem.” I bumped her with my shoulder.

Eve’s eyes meet mine for a moment. She offers a crooked but genuine smile, then bumps me back with her hip. “11 more to go I guess.”

My stomach flutters. “What do you do when you’re not drinking too much at 3 AM, Eve Polastri?”

She ashes her cigarette. “I… I uh, ponder the nuance of life and existence.”

“I see.” I scratch my chin at an imaginary beard. “What type of ponderances plague you, my dear?”

“Like…” Eve paused to gather her thoughts. “Like… do you ever wonder… if… hot dogs are technically sandwiches?”

That isn’t what I was expecting.

I let out a laugh. Not like one of those ‘laughs’ where I just blow some air out of my nose at something amusing. Like a genuine, full bellied laugh.

Eve joined me too. The sound is pleasant.

“Hey! You put me on the spot. Not all of us can come up with charming poems off the top of our heads, you know.”

“So you think I’m charming?”

“I said your poems were charming. You… the jury is still out on you.”

“Eve,” my hand feels for my heartbeat in my chest as I feign shock. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were flirting with me.”

She smirks at me with eyebrows raised. Can she hear how loudly my heart is pounding behind my ribs? If so, she gives nothing away.

_I can play this game. I like it when people challenge me. I like winning._

For now though, I redirect our conversation. “I guess it depends on your definition of what a sandwich is?”

The warmth radiates off her body in waves when Eve chuckles again. “So here’s the thing. ‘Sandwich’ means between two things, yeah?”

I nod.

“But what about _open faced_ sandwiches! If you think about it, a hotdog on a bun is basically an open faced sandwich but nobody ever calls it that...”

Eve is animated when she speaks. Her eyes light up and I don’t really know if the enthusiasm she carries with her when she talks about something as weird as this would be half as attractive on anyone else.

We debated if jam on toast is a 'sandwich.' Would you need bread for it to technically be a sandwich? And we decided that _technically,_ albeit reluctantly, that pizza by our definitions is also an open faced sandwich.

We spoke until the sun threatened to rise in the purple and pink tinged sky.

“Oh fucking fuck, I’m... fucked.”

Fuck is one of my favorite swear words in any language. “English is such a colorful language, no?”

“I’ve got to be at work in a couple hours!”

“Ah,” I turn my head to see the dawn breaking in the lilac sky. “I didn’t even realize how much time had passed.”

“Neither did I. I didn’t plan to stay out this late.” she ran her fingers through her thick locks.

_I wonder how lush her hair would feel under my fingertips?_

“It’s so late that it’s early.” My lame attempt at a joke.

She laughs anyway. I made a note to file that away as one of my new favorite sounds.

“You could call out sick,” I offered. In reality, I just didn't want our conversation to end.

Her pause lets me think she is actually considering it. She shook her head no, though. “Tempting… but I shouldn’t.”

“Goody two shoes.”

A beat.

“Well… I guess this is me, then.”

“I guess so.”

She turns to leave. I turn the opposite direction and start making my way home.

It was only a few meters away when a realization hit me.

I turn and see Eve’s retreating form getting smaller and smaller.

“Hey…” I say coolly.

“Hey…” but shit, she’s still walking and didn’t hear me.

“ **HEY**!”

Eve turns on her heel. She sees me waving. She waves back.

We are two idiots 10 meters apart waving to each other wordlessly.

“Let me walk you home!” I yell.

“Do you mind walking me home?” She yells at the same exact moment.

We laugh.

I meet Eve halfway across the bridge. “I was thinking... I should walk you home. Only weirdos are out this early/late.”

She loops her arm through mine and starts leading me. “ _You’re_ out this early/late.”

_Oh_ _darling_ _Eve, you think you are so clever._

“I was obviously talking about weirdos like _you_ , Eve Polastri.”

“You shush.”

Even though it is in the opposite direction I need to go, we walk shoulder to shoulder and pass one lit cigarette between us. The air around me feels lighter. Charged almost, if the hairs on the back of my neck are any indication.

It was a few city blocks before Eve slows our pace. She comes to a standstill in front of a stoop. The building itself is nondescript. Matching the rest of the rowhomes from here until the end of the block. She takes one step up so that we are eye to eye.

“Thanks for walking me back.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.”

Eve jogs up the last couple steps. She waves to me once more before she disappears finally behind the heavy door.

The walk back to my home was quick. Like I was floating on air.

For the first time in about 6 months I dreamt of pleasant things. The kind filled with women who made the gloomy clouds over London look like cotton candy; the kind who made the fog feel like vignette on vintage photos—so dreamy and lo-fi. The kind of woman with whom you can have a conversation for hours on something so mundane such as ‘what actually _is_ a sandwich’ and yet will still look at you like you are the most interesting person in the world. The kind of woman that is Eve Polastri.

Babies don’t sleep as well as I did that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'll finish this one. There's a beginning and an end and a vague middle and everything!


End file.
